


Entwine

by homsantoft (tofsla)



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 13:59:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5542538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofsla/pseuds/homsantoft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Josephine attends a party, meets an old lover, and doesn't believe anything she's told for a second.</p><p>But she enjoys it anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Entwine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [firescribble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firescribble/gifts).



> Thank you WoT2 for the information that younger, angrier Isabela used to dress up in men's trousers and run around Antiva making trouble.
> 
> For Val. I'll make more of this one day, I hope.

In Antiva, masks are not in fashion. People lie bare-faced, and become more effusive in their compliments the more they loathe one another. In a darkening courtyard strung with lights, between walls heavy with flowering vines, they bow and smile and consider murder.

Josephine longs for Leliana. Someone to whisper criticism in her ear as she herself smiles and plays the game. But one cannot always be in Orlais. One has duties—one has family. One has connections to exploit. The careful application of pressure is a regular necessity.

The tenth prince’s trousers are a disgraceful example of opulence over taste. They are threaded with gold and silver; they are embroidered with precious stones in the most ludicrous way.

It would still be more satisfying if Leliana were to say it. She has that way with words. Yes, she may be too sharp in some ways, and certainly their fling was ill-advised in its timing if not in its conception, but she is a beloved friend, one with whom one may be improper. A valuable thing.

Propriety. She says—oh, she says something very correct and of absolutely no consequence. She does not stare at the poor man’s unfortunate trousers. She does indulge a little—tiny pastries filled with apricots, beautiful little things made of chocolate and hazelnut topped with gold leaf. One must be allowed one’s smaller vices.

It is as she reaches for one of these confections that she becomes aware that someone is watching her. A prickly feeling on the back of the neck.

To her right.

Against a pillar a man leans, long hair swept up into a careless knot, shirt a little looser than is the current mode, trousers terribly tight. Quite excellent legs, Josephine notes absently, and not afraid to show them. He does not seem ashamed to be caught staring; he meets her gaze insolently. He is—

“ _Isabela_!” Josephine exclaims.

Isabela laughs, too loud, always too loud. A scandal in motion. “Oh, darling. Did you not recognise me?”

“Hush,” Josephine says urgently, and manages after a bare moment to rearrange her smile for the benefit of the rest of the room. “Oh, Isabela, whatever are you planning? You cannot tell me you came here for the conversation.”

“Perhaps,” Isabela says, with an exaggerated bow, “I came to admire the beautiful sights.” She looks up at Josephine through her dark lashes. Her smile is a wicked thing, full of promises she has no right to make.

“Oh,” Josephine says, mouth suddenly dry. Inexcusably, she does not have the presence of mind to refuse Isabela’s hand when it is offered to her.

Such rough hands. Sailor’s hands, fighter’s hands. They used to be softer. But her nails are well-kept. They always were.

What an absurd detail to notice.

“May I have the honour of a dance?” Isabela asks, belatedly.

“Certainly,” Josephine says, with false composure. “I have no doubt you would entertain yourself with petty crime if I refused, and I cannot allow it.”

“Oh, I see,” Isabela says, but she’s still smiling. “Well, a very noble sacrifice, then.”

“I rather thought so,” Josephine says, although she knows she is blushing hopelessly, although Isabela of all people must certainly know that she is flustered.

Isabela’s fingers slide along her wrist.

Her pulse thuds against them. Is it her fate to fall in with women like this, who deal in secrecy and knives and blood?

She would like to be able to resent it. She would like to be less enticed by it.

“Where do you sleep tonight, darling?” Isabela whispers in her ear as they turn together, Isabela’s hand warm on her waist—and although Josephine can feel the knife at Isabela’s hip, although she knows Isabela’s charm is part of the game, she is not such a proper lady as to be able to resist telling her.

“Leave your window open, then,” Isabela says, and her smile is wicked again. “The night air is gorgeous. And the wind’s from the sea.”

“Don’t steal anything, Isabela,” Josephine says sternly. “I beg you.”

“I’ll steal nothing,” Isabela says, smile broadening to grin. “Maybe you.”

She is such an unrepentant liar. But then, aren’t they all.

“Oh, Isabela,” Josephine says. “I would very much like to believe you.”

“Believe me,” Isabela says, and bends to kiss her. “Just for tonight. You can suspect me again tomorrow.”


End file.
